


Guest Rights

by nickahontas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 21:42:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17733209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: This is a chapter of a story I started in which Jon Snow has a twin and the Stark kids have visions. They tried to keep a war from happening with their knowledge, but ended up making things more precarious than they were before. This is the pivotal scene that starts the wheels turning.





	Guest Rights

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This a chapter set near the beginning of a story I’ve been working on. I really liked it so I thought I would share this chapter at least. Things you need to know:
> 
> The kids had visions. They tried to foster Arya off to Dorne, but didn’t intend for Oberyn Martel to come pick her up in a chance to see the north. Unfortunately, they got that raven as soon as they got the raven that King Bobby B was heading north as well. So, they accidentally made a clusterfuck. 
> 
> Lyra is Jon’s twin, BFFs with Robb, and hunted down ramsey and burned him alive to hatch a dragon egg she found in the crypts. Oberyn’s daughter Nymeria was there, so he is aware of the dragon and the twins’ parentage. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” Theon bellows.   
A passing Winterfell guard pauses, shooting us a concerned glance. Robb waves him off and I pull Theon against the warm stone wall.   
“I don’t understand?” I hiss. “I don’t understand what it is like to not belong? I am the legitimate daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen, you little shit. You don’t know what it’s like to not belong.”  
The moment of comprehension is almost comical. His handsome face morphs into shock. He even takes a step back and eyes me anew, as if he somehow remembers the Silver Prince.   
“Lyra!” Robb cries.   
I ignore my brother, never breaking contact with Theon’s grey eyes.  
“When I learned I knew I could either brood and rage over the family I lost or embrace the one I have. Ned Stark is a better father than any of us could ever ask for. Be a hostage or be a brother; it’s your choice.”  
“Not to interrupt your heartfelt scene, but we’re going to be late and we’re in enough shit as it is,” Robb says in his lord’s voice.   
He drags me through the alley by the arm, almost throwing me into the street.   
“The fuck was that, Lyra?!”  
“Someone needed to say something.”  
“At Jon’s expense?” He spits. “If he tells anyone, it’ll be Jon’s head on the block, not just yours.”  
I fall into step with him so that we can speak quietly. “You say that as if there isn’t a frightfully intelligent fire breathing animal hiding in the wolfswood. Someone is going to notice a great blue dragon at one point.”  
“Yes, well, we’ll take care of that when the time comes. After the King leaves. But if Theon goes to him before that then it’s war, which if I remember correctly, you’ve been screeching at us to prevent.”  
“I do not screech!”  
Our argument lasts all the way to the training yard. We don’t stop snapping at each other even as we help with the other’s armor. The two of us are still red faced and short fused when Joffrey Lannister and Sandor Clegane cut off our paths, Robb’s to Ser Rodrik and mine to the Dornish on the far left.   
“Here she is, Dog! The Bastard Burner! Gods, even your women are savages up here,” the prince sneers.   
“It’s more than you’ve ever done,” I say.   
“Aye, any of our savage women could knock any of your fine southern knights in the dirt,” Robb says proudly.   
Joffrey scoffs. “I would put them on their knees where they belong.”  
“I think you misheard my brother, Your Grace. He was speaking of your knights, not you. You aren’t worth the time it would take to clean your blood off my axe.”  
The Lannister’s pretty lips curl as he steps to me. Unfortunately, he’s tall enough to make me bend my head to maintain eye contact. Damn the lions and their good looks. “Are you threatening your prince?”  
“Quite the opposite, Your Grace,” I say airily. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a berating from Ser Rodrik to avoid.”  
I twirl around his thin frame to find myself against a steel wall. Sandor Clegane glares down at me. This is a man I have no qualms with submitting too. He’s more than capable of kicking my ass. Probably all of our asses. Only a handful of the four hundred in the castle would give him any sort of challenge. He could probably cut through most of the Kingsguard without breaking a sweat.   
“You. Are not. Excused.” The prince spits.   
“Surely your Grace has better company to keep than that of a lowly bastard,” I reason.   
“You’re playing with fire, girl,” Clegane warns.   
I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face. “Oh, I don’t know. I think it might be the other way around.”  
“Lyra!” Robb snaps. “Enough. Go to Prince Oberyn.”  
“I said she is not excused,” Joffrey whines.   
It’s Robb’s turn to square up. He’s shorter than the prince, but he’s broader and infinitely more threatening. Clegane loosens the sword in its sheath.   
“If you have a problem with my sister, you’ll take it up with me,” he says lowly. Dangerously.   
“If anyone’s getting a go at him, it’ll be me,” I declare.   
Joffrey laughs. It’s a mad sort of laugh that runs chills up my spine. It was the same laugh Ramsey had. Involuntarily, I take a step back to Clegane as several men step forward to intervene.   
“Scared now, girl?” The hound rasps from behind.   
“Ramsey laughed like that,” I say. I twist to stare up into the big man’s scarred face. “He laughed like that until the flames reached his feet.”  
Clegane blanches, his scars twisting with his grimace as he backs away.   
“There’s a war coming, Clegane. It’s inevitable with a king with a laugh like that. Think long and hard if you want to die for a king with a laugh like that. Jaime Lannister didn’t.”  
He spits at my feet. “That’s treas-“  
“I CHALLENGE THE BASTARD WHORE!”  
I spin. Robb’s face is white and red like a weirwood. Ser Barristan is signaling something to someone over my shoulder, probably for them to fetch the Queen. Gods know Robert Baratheon wouldn’t get off his fat ass long enough to parent the boy. Joffrey is angry and disheveled, his fine clothes in a disarray.  
“Live steel!” He declares, his emerald eyes alight with madness.   
“Your Grace, I strongly advise ag-“ Ser Barristan pleads.   
“Silence, old man!” Joffrey demands.   
“WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?!” A voice booms. All activity stops; the demon of the trident has appeared. Or a shade of it, at least. What a shame. The man could have been a legend instead of a pity. “A brawl between my son and Ned’s? Disrespecting the best knight in the lands? I’ll not have it, boy. I will not have it.“  
“I’m more concerned with Clegane spitting at my daughter,” a softer, colder voice says.   
“I goaded him, Father,” I say, my head bowed low.   
Father doesn’t reprimand me. He only cuts me a look that makes my stomach churn. Father is disappointed. Disappointed. Anger I could take, but this....  
“If the girl wants to be treated like a man that’s how’ll she be treated,” Clegane rasps.   
Even in my disgrace I can’t help but respect his simple logic. I appreciate it, even. But this is not the time for a philosophical debate on the treatment of women.   
“Indeed, Father,” Joffrey says, his chest puffed out in pride. “I only wished to provide the girl a chance to prove her boasting.”  
“You challenged a GIRL to COMBAT?!” The King asks incredulously. “NED’S GIRL? My namesake has every right to defend his sister, boy!”  
Ah, shit. That was a mistake. Taking my brother’s side and claiming a connection with him and as the worst possible thing for the king to do. I see it in the new light of the prince’s wildfire eyes, in the way that Robb cringes.   
“But Father-“  
“Ah, fuck it!” The King curses. He stomps away, to get a weapon I think, but instead he begins sucking on a wineskin. Seven hells, how did he even know it was there? He belches and sighs before he keeps speaking. “Let her kick your ass then! Gods know you don’t stand a chance against the Stark boy. Maybe you can win against the bastard girl.”   
Robert Baratheon stalks off, chugging and throwing a mug of ale that seems to have pulled out of thin air. I think I catch the name Lyanna on the wind. Father stays behind, his eyes a bit wide, trying to relay some silent message to me. I glance at Robb, but he looks just as shocked and worried. Not for me, but for the repercussions of whatever happens. Then there’s another laugh, one far more familiar and far less mad than Joffrey’s.   
“And I thought this would be a waste of time,” Theon chortles. A few of the soldiers chuckle nervously. I can almost kiss him then. Almost.   
“NED!” The King bellows. “HOUND! With me!”  
Clegane and Stark eye one another wearily. The two warriors stalk off after their king, never showing their back to the other.   
“Live. Steel!” Joffrey cries.   
“Your Grace, please, this is not a wise-“ Ser Barristan tries again.   
“The King gave his blessing. Unless you’ve turned craven, bastard?”  
I sigh. “No. Let’s get this over with then.”  
“Tourney steel, Joff,” another man says. Jaime Lannister. To my surprise, Joffrey scowls and concedes that much at least.   
The preparations pass in a daze. I can’t let him win. House Stark would be a laughing stock and I don’t doubt the incestuous shit would try to kill me given half a chance. I can’t do anything that could bring blame on my family either. Robb, Theon and Jon silently double check my armor. Oberyn Martell lounges with his paramour against the fence with an inscrutable expression. His disappointment, if that’s what it is, stings almost as much as Father’s. I tear myself away from my brothers and stride over to him.  
“I got cocky and made a mess out of things.”  
He frowns. “I am the last to judge another for an impulsive act against a Lannister.”  
I ignore his pointed look. “What would he say? Rhaegar?”  
He frowns again. Jaime Lannister materializes nearby, watching us to make sure we aren’t trading poisons.   
“Something prideful,” Oberyn says quietly. “Perhaps, what is a lion to a dragon?”  
“Is that the truth or an attempt to seduce me on to the throne?”  
Ellaria smiles. “You would know if we were trying to seduce you, little dragon.”  
“I don’t know if it would work for you,” I blurt. Ellaria raises an eyebrow. “The dragon not....the seduction.”  
Oberyn looks at me sharply.  
“I have the blood of the first men and old Valyria and Ramsey was a descendent of kings. There is another way, for others, but it is unpleasant.”   
“Unpleasant enough for you to hunt down a killer and walk into his pyre?”  
I attempt a smile. It’s a failure if Ellaria’s pitying frown is any sign.   
“Why are you telling me this?” The dornishman bites out.   
“The others want to keep them in the North.”  
“And you do not?” She asks, tilting her head.   
“I want to keep them with those we can trust. And perhaps it’s foolish, but I trust you to bring the fight to the North when the time comes.”  
“Against these ice demons you speak of?”  
“BASTARD!” Joffrey shrieks.   
Ellaria frowns in distaste. “Hit him hard for me, will you?”  
I sigh. “Please make up an elaborate lie if I die by his hand. I would be a shame upon House Stark for millennia to come.”   
Oberyn nods gravely. I stomp back to my brothers and take the shield Robb offers me.   
“Don’t embarrass us,” he says with a mocking smile.   
My brother gets a particularly rude gesture in farewell before I turn to face the prince, hoping we haven’t managed to start a war.   
Joffrey is hopeless. I almost feel sorry for him. He has the strength and ferocity of a mad young man, but that’s as much a challenge he presents. I kick him in the knee and have my axe against his pretty blonde hair in less than three minutes.   
“VICTORY TO LYRA SNOW!” Ser Rodrik calls.   
Joffrey snarls, rising to his feet.   
“AGAIN!” He demands.   
He throws off his shield and begins swinging even more wildly. I defend myself easily, patiently. The pretty sword whacks into my shield again and again. The poor boy tries to sneak in a kick like I did, but my shield blocks his sword and the blunt axe lands on his raised thigh.   
“VICTORY TO SNOW!” Ser Rodrik calls again.   
“AGAIN!” Joffrey shrieks.   
I glance at Ser Rodrik, who stares back coldly. I’ve made my bed and so I must lie in it.   
I throw my shield to the ground too and pull out the short tourney blade Rodrik himself had made for me. It makes me work a little harder, makes Joffrey look a little better. To himself anyway. Most of the men watching know that dual wielding is no easy feat and this is more of a training exercise for me than a real fight. In the end, I hook the axe around his arm, kick the back of his knee, and have the knife at his throat.   
“THIRD POINT TO SNOW!”  
Joffrey snarls up at me from his knees. I can’t help but find Ser Jaime in the quiet crowd. The greatest swordsman in the realm and this is what comes of your seed? I am no heroine, no Visenya or Nymeria. I am nothing more than a woman that can hold her own in a fight. There is no pleasure in humiliating the prince in this fashion. It leaves a cold slime in my belly. Nothing good will come of this.   
“You will not win today Joffrey Lannister. Go home. Train with your uncle and come back to kick my ass next year.”  
I release my hold on the prince and step around his kneeling figure. With a relieved sigh, I make my way through the yard to my brothers. Pride does not grace their features either. Arya, who has managed to sneak her way in, is the only one who dons a smirk. Theon ruffles her hair fondly, smiles weakly at me, and-   
A cry, first, and then a shout. Wide Tully blue eyes, and an open mouth. I turn, my weapons raised on pure instinct. The tall, lean prince is charging. A dark Valyrian blade clenched in his hands.   
And then he slumps to the ground.   
An axe protrudes from his chest.   
Greyjoy. Theon Greyjoy can hit a target with an hatchet even when he’s too drunk to walk. It’s in his blood, he says.   
The Iron Islander gapes past me at the fallen prince. Jon and Robb stare at him bewilderedly. Then, the courtyard bursts into action as if everyone has been waiting for a cue. I break out into a mad dash for my pack.   
“RUN, THEON!” I bellow as I vault over the fence.   
He turns his wide eyes on me. I scramble for Arya and shove her at his chest.   
“To the wolfswood! The dragon will protect you. Go!”  
“RUN!” Robb orders.  
Theon finally obeys, running with a frightened Arya slung over his shoulder. I have my blunt weapons raised, but Oberyn is tugging at me before I can defend myself. He has a sword, of all things, struggling to rush against the northmen swarming for Robb and Jon. I fight tooth and claw to get back to my brothers.   
“Stop! We must find Eddard,” he shouts over the din of voices.   
“No!” My brothers don’t stand a chance against the Kingslayer, against Ser Barristan.   
The Prince slams me against the wooden half of the armory, leaning in like a lover. “Your brothers have northern and Dornish swords. Your father does not.”  
That spurs me into action. I grasp his left hand and break into a sprint, mind full to give that strange sword of his a wide girth. He lowers it as a few Dornish guards catch up with us. I run hand in hand with the Prince of Dorne through the ancient walls of Winterfell. Alarmed guards immediately fall at our heels. It isn’t until I see a flash of auburn that I halt . Oberyn almost crashes into me.   
I rush to Catelyn and grip the older woman by the shoulders.   
“Father?!” I ask.   
“The lord’s solar. Girl, wh-“  
I glance over my shoulder at the men catching their breath behind me.   
“Joffrey is dead. Protect the Starks,” I command.   
Oberyn and I are out of the room before anyone else can protest. The distinctive sound of armor guards has significantly lessened. Nonetheless, we tear into the keep, shoving servants and nobles alike out of the way.   
“LYRA STARK!” A deep voice booms, so powerful it rattles my very bones. Several panicking people stop in their tracks. Even Oberyn stumbles.   
Greatjon Umber towers outside a narrow staircase that leads to the third floor. I backtrack, hurrying over to peer up through his wild, grey hair.   
“Joffrey attacked. Back was turned. Theon killed him,” I sputter.   
“Didn’t think the squid had it innim.”  
I bend to unsheathe the dagger from my boot in an attempt to hide my guilt. “I gave him Arya. Told them to go to the Wolfswood. Left Winterfell men with Catelyn. Don’t know about the boys or Sansa. Going to Father.”  
“THEN WHAT THE FOOK ARE YE WAITIN FOR?! GO TO THE NED,” he yells, stepping aside.   
“Didn’t see Smalljon in the yard,” I say as Oberyn pulls me up the stairs.  
“With Tyene!” Oberyn calls over his shoulder.   
Greatjon’s deep laugh follows us up the winding staircase. We twist and turn through the halls and stairs until finally, we enter the lords tower. Trant and Blount stand guard outside the solar door. They share a glance, draw their swords, and step forward.   
“Thank the gods it’s the two of you,” Oberyn says in genuine relief.   
The knights share another look.   
“Why? What’s happened?” Trant demands.   
“You’ll prove no challenge,” the Red Viper drawls.   
I’m shoved back into the wall of Dornish soldiers before I can react. Strong hands curl across my shoulders, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Oberyn Martell already has blood on the spear he whipped off his back. Trant joins his brother in the blink of an eye.   
“He liked hurting little girls,” I tell no one in particular.   
The Dornish look at me curiously, even as the door opens.   
“Lyra! What in seven hells-“  
I shove past Father’s broad frame, my dagger raised to fight off any other kingsguard. The complete ludicrousness of the room pulls me up short. Sansa is standing in a chair against the window with her stiletto on the Hound’s pulse point. The big man’s eyes dart from Sansa to the King and back again. The King only looks annoyed that some dared interrupt a nice glass of Arbor gold.   
“Martell! The fuck have you done?!” He thunders, shattering his wine glass against the wall.   
Sansa flinches. Clegane growls as a thin stream of blood trickles down his neck.   
“I have done nothing, you drunken fool’ It is that Lannister shit you call son that has just plunged the realm into war.”  
The King stills, turning his stormy eyes on me. “You kill him, girl?”   
“Greyjoy did when your son charged her from behind with a Valyrian steel dagger!” Oberyn yells.   
Baratheon blinks once, twice and then falls back onto the sofa.   
“Lyra, are you alright?” Father asks, taking my face in his hands.   
“Robb and Jon are in the courtyard. Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan were there Father.” His long face seems to lengthen even more with his dread. “And Smalljon wasn’t.”  
Father strides to Ice where it shines proudly on the mantle, pausing ever so shortly to eye Sansa and Clegane out of the corner of his eye.   
“Good work, Sansa, but I think we can trust Clegane not to do anything foolish,” he says. Sansa waits until the two men come to a silent agreement before replacing her dagger with her handkerchief. Clegane stares down at where their hands meet on his neck incredulously before reverting back to his customary scowl.   
“My son, Ned. My first born son!” The King howls. He has apparently broken down into tears, completely oblivious to the violent tension in the room.   
“He was not your firstborn, you whoring oaf,” Oberyn snaps.   
Baratheon doesn’t seem to hear him. He only sobs even harder. We all look to Father, who has already crossed the room in that quiet way of his.   
“Rob, come. We must bring our men to heel before our other sons are killed.”  
“I will have Greyjoy’s head, Ned!”  
“You will not!” I scream.   
“HE KILLED MY BOY! MY HEIR! MY PRINCE!”  
“Oh, bugger this. He wasn’t your son!” Clegane growls.   
The room is utterly silent except for Oberyn’s musical laugh. He laughs and laughs, even under Father’s cold glare. He laughs so hard that he has to lean against the massive ironwood desk.   
“What is this?” The King demands, rising from the cushions. Clegane scowls, unperturbed by the day man rounding on him.   
“Protect my daughters, Oberyn,” Father orders. The sad disgust in his tone breaks my heart. We never wanted to hurt him. We never wanted to show him the truth this way.   
The Dornish prince sobers enough to nod and order his men to accompany his father. I immediately run after the men, surprised when no one stops me. Ser Daemon Sand, however, is quick on my heels. I pause only long enough to sheath my dagger and pick up Trant’s bastard sword.   
“What did you mean when you said he liked to kill little girls?” The handsome knight asks as we jog after Lord Stark and his odd guard.   
“The gods granted each of the Stark children visions. He bought little girls and hurt them.”  
We take the stairs two at a time.   
“I am sorry you had to see that.”  
The sentiment is unexpected enough to make me pause in the doorway. I look into his blue eyes curiously.   
“Lyra!” Father calls.   
He is already hurrying through the keep before I manage to turn around. I run to catch up to his side.   
“I sent Theon into the Wolfswood with Arya. And Snow. I left some of our men with Lady Catelyn. I don’t know about Rickon or Bran, but Greatjon was downstairs when we arrived.”  
“You did well.”  
“Oberyn had to pull me from Robb and Jon,” I admit.   
“It is natural,” he says, motioning for more guards to fall into step. “He would have done the same in your situation.”  
I nod briskly.  
“Lyra, I need you in the Wolfswood.”  
“What?!” I screech, stumbling.   
Still, Father does not slow. “You may be the last of your line. Arya, too, if things go badly. Go to the Wolfswood. Protect your sister. Protect Snow. He will be more important than you or I in the days to come.”   
“Yes, Father,” I say quietly.   
He stops outside the door to the main stairwell. The great hall is utterly silent beyond. He turns to address the dozen or so men standing behind us.   
“I want three experienced northern men with my daughter. You will follow her as you would any Stark. Understood?”  
An intense, synchronized ‘aye’ is a response. Immediately, two men with graying beards and a third with the tattoos of a mountain clan step out of rank to join me. Ser Daemon and two Dornish spearmen follow suit.   
“My Prince commanded me to look after the girl,” he tells Lord Stark. Father nods brusquely.   
The knight looks out at his own men. “I pass command to Lord Stark. Remember Elia, brothers and sisters. Remember her children.”  
They slam their spears onto the stone floor twice in quick succession. Father meets my eyes, nods, and shoulders through the heavy doors. It is empty except for two dead Lannisters and a handful of northern soldiers waiting patiently with swords and axes drawn. Father begins shouting commands before he is even off the stairs. I linger long enough for him to see him through the door before Ser Daemon squeezes my shoulder.   
“Princess,” he says quietly.   
I don’t care to correct him. This is not the time.   
“Dornish to the rear. Brynden,” I gesture to the taller of the northmen. “Take point. On to the Wolfswood.”  
The men nod respectfully, Ser Brynden and the clansmen falling into step beside me. We go through the kitchens, out the door, and into the ancient forest in search of a girl, a brother, and a dragon.


End file.
